Last Act and Epilogue
by Skye Feyden
Summary: A collection of potentially free-standing short stories. First up, "The Last Years," Jack's search for his lost childhood
1. The Last Act's Introduction

**__**

Last Act and Epilogue

A collection of stories may be read as a series or they may relate to each other while standing alone. This collection is just such a thing; you as the reader can choose either option. Many of these stories carry the titles of short works from F. Scott Fitzgerald, and though they may rarely contain similar lines, each of the stories within this volume are my own. So what does this "volume" contain? 

The first story, called "The Last Years," tells the tale of Jack Kelly's search for a lost childhood. Filled with angst, bitterness, and regret, it may contain subtle hints of slash should you choose to take it that way. 

"Recollections," currently under work, will be the second story.

As always, you are more than welcome to e-mail me with any questions or concerns. Every time I update my stories, I will update this introduction page with the summary of whatever I post. 

REVIEWS VERY MUCH APPRECIATED (but not mandatory, of course!)

Please, sit back and enjoy!

~Skye Feyden


	2. The Last Years

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The Last Years

"Dutchy?" he asked, leaning over the counter and reading through the pages of the book.

"No, I'm sorry." The man flipped through the dusty logs. "It seems he left five years ago."

"How about Mush? Racetrack?"

"Mr. Meyers and Mr. Higgins both appear to have left for places south and west, respectively."

"Ain't none'a dem heah anymoah?" His voice was collecting desperation as it moved along. "Ain't none'a dem still in dah city?"

"It doesn't say anything more than what I've told you, Sir." But this man was calm, collected, almost stoic.

"How 'bout Mr. Kloppman? Tell me he's still heah in dah city?"

"He's dead, three years now. But I can take your name down, Sir, if they ever come back and ask for you. What did you say it was?" He paused over his new records, holding a dull pencil.

Jack Kelly, clutching his shirt just over his heart, fell to the side against the counter as if he'd been kicked. "Nah," he said softly. "It don't mattah. It don't mattah no moah."

Pulling his scarf tighter around his face and neck, he exited through the gaping front door. All at once, memories flooded his mind and he gave a cry at the visions of his greatest friends surrounding him, smiling and laughing.

It was 1910, and he was twenty-six now. Ten years ago he had left to follow his dreams and the promise of money to live. Ten years ago he had said his farewells and gone away. Ten years ago his heart had been broken and never healed …

"'Scuse me," he said, bumping into someone and being jostled to the side. He remembered this season well, this coldness, this pervading chill that froze even his bones. His gloves were worn, and his jacket thin. _Maybe I made a mistake_ was his first thought.

A glimpse at the trash can beside him. There had been a day not so long ago (no, almost eleven years now, actually) when he had taken to eating from the top of it in desperate times. They had all split the spoils, had all shared the wealth. He had been their leader, and he had loved them more than anything. More than anything. Now they were all grown and gone away.

Motorcars were running through the streets, not too many, of course, but moreso than in his own time. The paved avenues seemed wider, ready to swallow him whole if he set foot on it with a timid heart. So he tightened his resolution and strode forward.

Oh, they were ruthless, the motorcars, and he was forced to dance ridiculously in all directions to avoid being crushed beneath their thin tires. By the time he reached the other side, he felt thoroughly harassed and irritable. But perhaps it was only deep longing for the past that now filled his empty heart.

A familiar face? Nah, there was nothing for him in the crowds that passed, scurrying here and there. He searched the eyes, the cheeks, the lips of the men and even the boys, but all was stone and all was cold. "Ain't none'a dem heah anymoah?" he asked softly to himself and he was concentrating so hard on his memories that he did not even notice where he was walking until he tripped into someone and cringed at their angry reprimand.

Where was he going? He did not even realise until he felt his feet trodding the same familiar paths, the same road he had taken so many times before. One shoe touched the bridge, then another, and a stride and a stride and a stride, until he felt his hand shaking with the effort of walking atop so high a structure. But he was fearless, he was invincible, and he was trying to find his old friends. And, God, to do that, he would go to the ends of the earth themselves if need really be.

He remembered a time long ago when he looked forward to this journey. A laugh sounded up in his mind and instantly he was lost in his reflections_. "Is this Spot Conlon really dangerous?"_ came the voice and he turned and smiled. "Nah, kid," he had answered. "Nah, he ain't dat bad long's he's in a good mood."

__

"Then why does everyone fear him?" the voice asked, full of innocence and naivete.

"'Cause dey don't have dah stature an' dah talk dat I'se got," he told it. "Dey's ain't like me, Davey, dey's ain't got dah dreams dat I'se got."

__

"Watch this," Boots exclaimed, and, leading Davey to the edge of the bridge, gave a great yell down into the empty void.

Jack laughed and laughed and he did not even realise the strange looks being thrown his way.

But all too soon he was at his destination and when he saw the piers, he gave a cry and fell to his knees.

"Ain't none'a dem heah anymoah?" he cried, pulling at his hair.

What he had expected to be there and what actually sat on the harbour were two very different things. There was no bobbing dock, no laughing friends, no Spot Conlon presiding over all activity. Instead was a mossy gangplank next to the worn little fishing ship and a toppled wooden tower. The only sound was water lapping on the rotten boards and Jack's rapid breathing.

"Weah'd dey all go?" he asked softly, feeling the slimy moss beneath his fingertips. Where were all the papers, the boys jumping fearlessly from the piers, the laughs and the shouts? Not here, not anymore.

"Was it evah real?" he asked himself. "Was any of it evah really true?" He remembered it from such a long time ago, a place that seemed so distant. Perhaps this was the cruelest fate of all, to be denied something that used to be such a reality.

"Lookin' fer somethin'?" asked a voice from behind him. Agonised, he dug his fingernails into the plank and turned his head. His eyes looked so very lost.

"Spot Conlon?" he asked. "Finch O'Riley?"

"Dunno who yer're talkin' about." the man said. He was wiping blackened hands on a torn rag. "Ain't been no'un heah fer years."

"No one?"

"Old weahhouse burned down, 'bout a block from heah. Ain't no'un been seen on the docks since."

"No one?"

The man was agitated. "Dat's what I said, ain't it?"

He could hardly bring himself to say the words. "The fire -- did it … did anyone … were dey in dah buildin'?"

"Dunno, kid. Dey friends'a yers or sumpt'in'?"

"Friends," he said softly. "Friends … yes, yes they were."

"Sorry I can't help yah," the man said, softening just a bit. "I'se told yah all I know." He studied the haggard young man for a second. At last, he said, "Look, kid, maybe City Hall can help yah find yah friends. Did yah look dere yet?"

Jack shook his head. There were tears welling up in his eyes, but he did not let them fall. His friends, his beautiful friends … not Finch, not Spot …

"Dat's all I can tell yah, kid. Sorry I can't help no moah." he said. "Now I'se gotta go, and dis is my own boat. If you'll 'scuse me …"

There was no sound in his throat as he moved miserably to the side. The man passed, wordlessly, and once boarded, steered his nimble little ship from its slip.

"A fire," he said and his words were so gently quiet that they faded into the sound of the softly lapping waves. "A fire …"

He put his head onto the planks. The strength was gone from his body. "Was it evah real?" he cried but there was no answer. "Was it evah real?"

Defeated, he closed his eyes.

It was raining when he found the building. Oh, he would die if this face was gone, too. This face … this was his last shot, his last chance, his last hope. What would he do if it, too, had disappeared?

For a moment, frightened that he would find nothing, he stood in the rain, under the lamplight, looking up at the window. Inside there was a light, and the dimmest bit of hope flickered in his heart. How often had he stood in the same place, watching, waiting? Water droplets rolled from his hair onto his cheeks, but they were not …

He climbed the stairs from the lobby to the familiar hallway. The door was worn, the numbers fading and dim, the knob the dullest bit of brass. With a shaking hand he knocked once, twice, and the doorknob jingled in a musical way. There were footsteps in the hallway and he waited, waited for what he felt was an eternity. Suddenly it cracked open with the hinges giving a slow squeal and his breath caught in his throat. No, it couldn't be … it couldn't possibly be …

"Jack?" but the tentative voice was filled with quivering joy. "Jack, is it you?"

"Oh, God, oh, God, it's me, Davey, it's your old Jack!" he was crying with overwhelming joy as he tightened his arms around his old friend. He squeezed his eyes shut and two great tears leaked out. His whole body shook with emotion.

"Jack, Jack, where have you been? It's been so long, such a long time and I thought everyone was gone! Where have you been, Jack, why didn't you come to see me?"

He felt David's body against his, although it was much changed now, much leaner yet hardened into manhood. The boy of the past was gone, and the weary face shocked Jack, who had had never imagined his old friend as anything other than innocent and youthful.

"Where have you been, Jack?"

"It don' mattah, Davey, it don' mattah 'cause I'm heah now an' I ain't gonna leave yah again. I ain't leavin' no moah, Dave, I ain't goin' away again."

"Oh, God, Jack, it's been such a long time, it's been forever. Did you finally come to see me, Jack? Did you finally come home?"

The words dried up in Jack's throat. Then he found a quiet, wavering voice. Wiping away the tears under his eyes, he said, "Yeah, Dave, I'm home at last."

"Oh, God, Jack, you're soaked to the bone!" David said, a gentle, loving hand on his friend's arm. "You need to dry off, Jack, you're going to get sick."

Jack laughed, the most joyous sound he could ever have made, although it sounded weak. "Yeah, I don' have much. Dis is it, Dave, dis is dah sum total'a my dreams! Always knew I'd end up like dis, didn't yah?"

"Don't talk like that, Jack. Don't say that. Come in, Jack, come in and we'll talk. Here, I want you to change and have dinner, a good, warm meal.

"Dave, I dunno what tah say -- "

David smiled. "Say you'll stay awhile and talk to me like old times."

Again Jack lost the words. He nodded. "Yeah, Dave," he said at last. "I'll stay awhile."

They sat in front of the fire, Jack with a bowl of soup to warm his hands and his throat, Davey with the evening paper. For a moment there was comfortable silence, then Jack swallowed and said, "Headline any good?"

"Not terrible," Davey smiled. "It's odd even now to be the customer instead of the seller. I still think about those things, the quality of the headlines and that."

"Yeah, me too." Jack agreed. "Can I ask yah some questions, Dave? About dah uddahs?"

As if he were uncertain, David nodded. "What do you need to know?"

"What happened tah dem, Dave? Weah did dey go? Ain't no one heah anymoah?"

"They left, Jack. You left, too. What else is there to say?"

"Oh, but, Dave," he said sadly. "Why?"

"We grew up, Jack, we grew up and realised things change. They couldn't be newsies all their lives."

"But my boys, Dave, my boys! Weah'd dey go? Mush, Blink, Dutchy, Snitch, Skittery --"

"They're everywhere now. All to their own places, all scattered."

He paused for a moment. He could not meet Davey's eyes. "And Spot?"

"I don't know. They disappeared, one by one, Spot too. It was sudden, one day he was there and the next he was gone. That was the way with them all. They lost heart, Jack."

Jack was silent for a moment. He put the bowl of warm soup on the floor next to the old couch. "And you stayed."

"Someone had to." David smiled gently. "Besides, my career is here now. I went to school, into law. My parents stayed for awhile, then went back to the Old Country. Les lives with Sarah a little upstate from here, in the country. I write them, visit when I can."

"Law, huh?" Jack was obviously impressed. 

"Yeah," Dave smiled proudly, unable to totally keep hold of his humble, modest manner. "I did well, and now my own firm is starting to attract business."

"You own a firm?"

"I have a business partner who helps. We went in together, Denver-Jacobs Law Firm. There's big business in this city." He paused. "But I still think about the past, Jack, I still think about the boys -- "

"I know," Jack said softly. "Me, too, Dave."

"And you, Jack, what about you?"

Jack shifted his weight. "It don' mattah, Dave, 'cause I was chasin' a dream dat didn't exist. Dere ain't nothin' more den dreams, Dave, nothin' more dem dreams."

"That's why you came back?"

"I'm lookin' fer my childhood. But there ain't nothin' left fer me tah find, it seems. Fer a second, Dave, I thought it was all an imaginary past. Was any of it evah real?"

"Yes, Jack, it was more real than the childhoods of most people. Yes, it was very real."

"'Cause I dunno, Dave, I can't find anythin' tah help me see it again. There ain't nothin' left, an' I just wanna be wid me boys like dah old times. Just like dah old times."

"Maybe they'll come back, maybe they'll come home like you did. They'll get lonely eventually, they'll end up in the same place they started." His voice was full of false hope. "And everything will be like the old times."

They left David's apartment and walked to the Lodging House. The rain was still hard, still pouring down, and they hurried along under the cover of a black umbrella. Well-fed, warmed, and in the good company of each other, they were silent, anticipating what they would find.

"Just gotta look, just gotta finally know."

"What if it's all wrong, Jack?"

"Then it's wrong, an' we start all ovah."

Davey fell to silence. At last the doors loomed before them and Jack grabbed ahold of the handle. Bypassing the desk clerk, they bounded upstairs. But it was David who had been correct, and everything was different.

"Weah'd it all go?" Jack cried, running from room to room. "The bunks, the washroom --"

"All gone!" Davey whispered. "All gone … "

"There was nevah a door heah," Jack's voice dropped to what was almost a whisper. "And the wall," he reached out to touch the plaster. "They put new boards ovah it, dey sealed my hidin' spot! All'a me pape clippin's, all'a me pictures … gone," He seemed reduced to tears. "All gone! Oh, God, this can't be happening!"

Davey took his friend and hugged him tightly, shielding Jack's face from the room. But Jack, after a moment, pulled away.

"Dere's gotta be sumpthin' left, anythin'!" Tears were streaming down his face. "Anythin'!" he cried.

He searched up and down, looking for a trace of his childhood in a scrap of paper, in a familiar grain of wood. His hands roved the walls for the loose board, the protecting panel which hid his greatest treasures: his pictures of his lost friends.

"Why did it have tah end?" Jack let loose a wail of despair and tore at his scalp. "Weah is it now?"

"Come on, Jack," Davey said, voice full of sadness. "Come on, let's go home."

"Dere ain't no home left," Jack was utterly broken. His words were like a dying breath.   
Ain't no home left."

The faces of his friends had long ago faded in his mind, only to be replaced by his own creations, each more beautiful than the last. That night as he sat with Davey, he recalled them, not understanding that they appeared to him like flies caught in amber, perfect within his mind, beautiful in ever-lasting youth. He never saw them as being any older, never saw them burdened with the weight of a thousand sorrows. For when they smiled at him from the lost depths of his mind's eye, they were more beautiful in framed motion than they had ever been in life.

"Was it all just a dream, Davey?"

"No, Jack, it was real. We're here now, isn't that real enough?"

Jack looked out the window. "It's real, but it ain't enough." He heard the musical droplets of rain on the window. Then he was silent, simply listening.

This place was empty now, except for he and David, and he felt sure that in another month he would lose heart again. The same old insatiable wanderlust would fill his desperate soul and he would leave for places unknown just as the last time. This city had once been so full of life and love but when he left, it would fade away again, taking on a startling perfection in his memory that living persons and living places never truly achieved until death. Like his friends, his memories of this place would be more lovely than reality. In another month he would be gone and his childhood sadly forgotten, and New York would be empty for him forever.


End file.
